


we never had a shotgun shot in the dark

by voxofthevoid



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fisting, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes as Captain America, Dominance and Submission, He Gets Fisted First, M/M, Masochism, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Repression, SHIELD Agent Steve Rogers, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:21:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25110823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxofthevoid/pseuds/voxofthevoid
Summary: The bite aches, blood dripping sluggishly down his neck. He imagines it staining the patriotic blue of his suit and grins viciously where no one can see.“That was good,” Steve says, and he’s as soft-spoken as ever but the steel underneath the silk tears Bucky brutally out of his head. “You lasted longer than last time.”Last time was—Tony’s tower, and Steve looking pretty on Nat’s arm, and Bucky wasn’t jealous, doesn’t know what he was, but it made him stupid and reckless, and—Steve, smirking and calm, saying Bucky should’ve asked first and then making himbeg—Bucky takes care not think of last time, doesn’t appreciate the reminder, but Steve meets his glare placidly in the mirror and Bucky’s the first to look away. After a long, electric silence, Steve speaks.“I think you have one more in you.”-Captain Barnes and Agent Rogers have their own post-mission routine.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 91
Kudos: 525





	we never had a shotgun shot in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> I would say this is kind of like the reverse of [couldn’t get the boy to kill me](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1257302), but not as sad and much shorter. In fact, this is the shortest fic I’ve written for this fandom. Enjoy 2k of porn that’s still somehow emotionally complicated!
> 
> Pretty banner by my favorite potato - kocuria! Her tumblr is [here](https://kocuria.tumblr.com/)! 
> 
> And here's [mine](https://voxofthevoid.tumblr.com/).

* * *

* * *

“Easy,” Steve murmurs, sliding in a second finger, and it’s too fast, the stretch too much.

Bucky swallows a whine and stares at his own flushed face in the mirror, barely recognizing the man looking back, this creature with eyes blown dark and lips bitten red.

Steve’s fingers slide deep, slick and crooked, digging into warm, yielding muscle. Bucky tries to drag in air and fails when the fingers shift, brushing his prostate, accidental at first and then not, when he jolts, pressing hard with intent.

“ _Ah_ ,” he cries, a quiet whimper he can’t hold in.

Steve twists his fingers, digging into that spot like he wants to break Bucky from the inside, and it’s all Bucky can do not to scream. He cries out instead, a helpless litany of _ah-ah-ah_ , and Steve’s reflection isn’t smiling, but there’s pleasure in his eyes, in the corners of his mouth.

“Another,” he says, deceptively light as if he cares what Bucky says. “You’re ready.”

He’s not, he’s—

It _burns_ , a tight and violent stretch, and the pain’s almost worse than the pleasure, simmering under his skin like a wound that just won’t heal. Steve’s other hand grips one cheek and pulls it to the side, spreading Bucky so wide that his rim throbs in protest. He doesn’t need to look at Steve—he _can’t_ , he can’t meet Steve’s unwavering stare and not burn in it—to know he’s eyeing where his fingers are pumping in and out of Bucky’s body.

He doesn’t understand the fascination, but then he looks at the mirror, looks at Steve, still in STRIKE gear with a cut on his cheek and dirt smeared on his forehead, and wonders if what Steve is feeling is anything like the endless maw of want and need and guilt that gapes open inside of him at the sight.

Steve hooks his fingers, knuckles stretching Bucky’s rim to what feels like its limit, but Bucky knows better now, knows not to be complacent. He clenches all over, clamping tight over Steve’s fingers, dick dripping where it hangs heavy between his legs. Steve finds his prostate again, his precision as unerring here as on the battlefield, and Bucky tries to understand whether that makes him the battle.

Steve’s fingers slide out and thrust back in, angled to assault that spot, and Bucky gratefully stops thinking, sobbing into his arm.

He’s pushed into the edge in a matter of seconds. But it’s not enough, not quite, and Bucky’s left writhing in the grip of a building heat that’s too much and not enough. He tries to beg, but his tongue’s too clumsy to form words and his body hasn’t stopped trembling since Steve grabbed his wrist and dragged him here.

But Steve has clever hands and a sharp mind, and Bucky never stood a chance.

A hand fists in his hair. Bucky first registers the shift in the angle of Steve’s hand, in the fingers hooking into flesh well away from his aching prostate, but then his head is yanked up, and Bucky has just enough time to cry out before teeth sink into his throat.

They break skin. He bleeds and comes untouched, spasming madly around Steve’s fingers and screaming, Steve’s name mangled on his tongue.

Steve lets go of his hair and his throat but doesn’t slide his fingers out of Bucky, and all Bucky can do is bury his face in his arms and breathe and breathe and breathe until his legs stop shaking and his lungs stop burning.

The bite aches, blood dripping sluggishly down his neck. He imagines it staining the patriotic blue of his suit and grins viciously where no one can see.

“That was good,” Steve says, and he’s as soft-spoken as ever but the steel underneath the silk tears Bucky brutally out of his head. “You lasted longer than last time.”

Last time was—

Tony’s tower, and Steve looking pretty on Nat’s arm, and Bucky wasn’t jealous, doesn’t know what he was, but it made him stupid and reckless, and—

Steve, smirking and calm, saying Bucky should’ve asked first and then making him _beg_ —

Bucky takes care not think of last time, doesn’t appreciate the reminder, but Steve meets his glare placidly in the mirror and Bucky’s the first to look away. After a long, electric silence, Steve speaks.

“I think you have one more in you.”

Bucky is a wrung-out towel, damp and half-torn from how thoroughly he’s been drained. He shakes his head weakly, murmurs a soft plea, and isn’t very surprised when Steve takes his fingers out only to return with a fresh load of lube. He can’t summon the strength to fight it off, and he quiets the snide voice in his head which says he doesn’t have to fight; all it would take is one word and Steve would stop.

He doesn’t want to think that he wants it, _knows_ he’s not supposed to, and then Steve presses in on his swollen, sensitive prostate, and Bucky’s spared having to think at all.

His cock’s limp, the tear on his throat has stopped bleeding, and Steve’s fingers rouse the sort of sensation that’s too dull to be pain and too sharp to be pleasure. It just is, heat and friction spreading Bucky wide, jolting him loose, and one of these days, Steve will shove him too far off the edge and Bucky will never recover, and he can’t decide whether that’s terrifying or reassuring.

Steve braces his free hand between Bucky’s shoulder blades, over the padded fabric. It’s a lighter weight than the shield that rests there, but Steve’s got long fingers, and they seem to span the whole of Bucky’s back, holding him in the palm of his hand.

Big hands, beautiful and brutal. They could break him so sweet.

Steve fucks him lazily until the seconds blur into a single, throbbing beat. Warmth trickles through his veins. He’s nowhere close to another orgasm, won’t be any time soon. Maybe if Steve touched him, _fucked_ him, but this is all Steve ever gives him—his fingers, slow and sure and savage.

Steve hums. Changes the angle. His hand must be getting tired. Bucky’s cock is only half-hard. His ass aches dully.

“More,” says Steve.

The emptiness is sudden and shocking. Bucky whines before he can swallow it down. Steve spares him a half-smile; he’s pouring more lube on his fingers but his eyes are on the mirror.

Three fingers slide into Bucky, all at once. Bucky sinks metal fingers into his flesh arm and lets the pain ground him. He started with both hands braced on the sink, and he doesn’t remember when they folded into a desperate headrest. He looks pathetic, curled in on himself as he bites his lips and takes what Steve gives him, and he feels it too but that’s half the appeal.

The other half, he thinks as a fourth finger nudges the ring and pushes past its fluttering resistance, is the exquisite cruelty Steve wields with such kindness.

Steve buries four fingers in him. Bucky quivers around the stretch.

His cock’s heavy with blood again, curved towards one thigh and throbbing for a touch. It won’t get it. Bucky’s not here to ask, he’s just got to take it.

“Still not enough, hm?” Steve asks.

Bucky starts to look at him but is arrested by the sight of his own eyes, dark and wild, red veins running through the white. He looks half-mad. He’s not sure if that’s untrue.

What would they think, if they saw him—

Another nudge at his hole, the deliberate scrape of a nail along the taut edges.

“I can’t,” Bucky says. It’s the first time he’s saying more than broken pleas. His voice is hoarse, whispery.

“You can.”

Steve folds his fingers into his palm. His thumb nudges up against the obscene stretch of Bucky’s hole.

And against all odds, it starts to slide in.

Bucky does scream this time.

“I like your serum,” Steve says when Bucky quiets down, running sharply out of air. “A lot I can do without wrecking you beyond repair.”

Bucky has his hands gripping the sink again, the reversal occurring the same as before, Bucky’s body moving without conscious thought. Dark marble cracks under his grip, spiderwebs spreading out from each fingertip. He tries to ease his grip, tries to let that distract him from the insane pressure at his hole.

His hair hangs on either side of his face, lank and damp, matted with mud and worse.

He swallows Steve’s whole hand, ass closing feebly around his thick wrist.

“See?” Steve says, what might be pride deepening his voice. “You could.”

He’s stroking Bucky’s flank. He croons soft things now and then, things that Bucky hears but doesn’t think about. They’re pretty words, sweet and kind, aimed to calm, to ease the fever-tight clutch of Bucky’s muscles around Steve’s hand.

It feels like—feels like someone shoved their hand in him. The pain is pulsing, writhing, a heat with a mind of its own. The pleasure is no kinder, shuddering up his spine with every helpless clench of his ass around the thick intrusion.

But Steve was right. The serum made him fit to take far more damage. Steve’s hand in his ass is gentle in comparison.

It is gentle, in a way. Steve’s hurts are always measured. More than what Bucky thinks he can take but never more than what he _can_ take.

Slowly, so slowly that the sensation spears into every one of Bucky’s cells, Steve curls his hand into a fist.

White bursts in Bucky’s vision.

Steve does—something. Moves, hand twisting, pressing, tugging, and Bucky’s cock throbs with violent warmth, a pounding pulse that bursts with a fleeting pressure on his prostate. It lasts longer, aches worse, his climax a maelstrom of pain and pleasure.

Bucky blacks out gratefully.

It’s only a moment. But he’s learned to appreciate oblivion in all its transience.

Steve’s careful, taking his fingers out. It still hurts, but Bucky doesn’t have the energy to do more than whimper. He’s still upright, somehow. He thinks it’s because of Steve’s hand, now steady on his hips, gripping hard enough that Bucky will see the bruises before they fade.

He likes that.

Finally, Steve’s hand pulls free. He frowns down at the slick mess of it and rotates his wrist once or twice. Bucky watches because he can’t look away and stifles the urge to take Steve’s hand between his and soothe the aches. He can barely soothe his own aches.

Steve’s expression is gentler when he looks at Bucky, not at his face but at the mess left below his waist. His ass is gaping, rim twitching uselessly, and there’s come dribbling down his legs. There’s pride in Steve’s eyes and pleasure too, and Bucky questions many things about this when he’s more in his right mind, but whether Steve’s forcing himself isn’t one of them.

“I think I’ll fuck you next time,” Steve says thoughtfully, murmuring the words like he’s just talking to himself.

But his eyes catch Bucky’s and stay a long time.

Bucky’s the one to break away, as always, blinking and looking down at cracked marble.

Steve steps away. He moves quietly, with barely a whisper of sound.

“Thank you,” Bucky manages, voice cracking at the end.

There’s a sound that’s too somber to be laugher but isn’t really anything else either.

“You’re welcome, Captain,” Steve says gently.

Bucky closes his eyes. He should get up but finds he can’t move.

It’s a bit of a blur after that.

Steve takes care of him, he knows that. He always does. Bucky’s vaguely aware of being pulled upright and propped against something solid while he’s stripped. There’s warm water sluicing over his skin and warmer hands rubbing soap into the webbing between his fingers.

More warmth, later, and softness, too. A bed under his back and blankets tucked under his chin.

“Take care of yourself, Captain.”

Bucky manages to move before Steve leaves. Catches his hand. His grip is feeble, fingers weak and trembling, but Steve stills. Even with his eyes shut tight, Bucky can feel the weight of Steve’s eyes. It runs him through, hot and sharp.

 _Stay_ , he wants to say. But he can’t make his mouth move.

Steve’s sharper than Bucky fears and kinder than he deserves.

“Move over then,” he says, and when Bucky squirms to make space on the narrow bed, he slides in, his body pressing against Bucky under the covers, solid and warm.

It’s a tight fit. S.H.I.E.L.D rooms are narrow and utilitarian, built to accommodate just one person, and they’re both large men. But Bucky’s only too eager to press the whole of his body against Steve’s, trying to crawl into his soothing heat. They make themselves fit, a messy tangle of limbs.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into the crook of Steve’s throat. “I’m so—”

“Ssh. It’s alright, Buck. Just sleep.”

“Don’t go.”

“I won’t.”

Bucky believes him. Steve never lies.

And he sleeps, long and deep, and if he dreams, he doesn’t remember. 

**Author's Note:**

> Drop me a word if you can <3


End file.
